In the back of a car rumbling through Brooklyn’s busy streets, Peggy Carter sits beside Steve Rogers, her posture poised despite the jostling ride. She glances at him, her voice carrying a trace of understanding. “To have every door shut in your face.”

Steve, his slight frame tucked into the seat, fumbles his response, his words earnest but clumsy. “I guess I just don’t know why you’d want to join the Army if you were a beautiful dame. Or a bea—a woman. An agent. Not a dame. You are beautiful, but—”

Peggy’s lips quirk into a wry smile. “You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?”

Steve shrugs, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I think this is the longest conversation I’ve had with one. Women aren’t exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on.”

Peggy tilts her head, intrigued. “You must have danced.”

“Well, asking a woman to dance always seemed so terrifying,” Steve says softly. “And the past few years, it just didn’t seem to matter that much. I figured I’d wait.”

“For what?” Peggy asks, her eyes searching his.

Steve meets her gaze, steady and sincere. “The right partner.”

The car slows outside a nondescript antique shop, its faded sign barely visible in the morning light. Peggy steps out, her movements brisk. “This way,” she says, glancing back at Steve.

Steve climbs out, his brow furrowing. “What are we doing here?”

Peggy pushes open the shop’s door without answering. “Follow me,” she says, stepping inside.